Two Men in a Cemetery
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Ten years goes by, hate survives.


**Disclaimer:** These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Rated: **K+

**Author's Note: **In keeping with my tradition (defined as anything one has done three times) of a Halloween offering, which began in '05 with_Phantasmagoria_ and continued last year with _War of the Words_, here is—

**Two Men in a Cemetery**

By L.M. Lewis

The Coyote might have been the ideal vehicle for chasing fast bad guys, but it lacked a lot when used for stakeouts: too highly visible, and uncomfortably small for prolonged sitting and waiting. But this was an impromptu affair—Hardcastle had received a call from an old informant only a few hours earlier. Charlie Breazle was rumored to be back in town and that meant trouble.

"For a hired killer, he's kind of the sentimental sort," Hardcastle said, shifting around in his seat in an unsuccessful attempt to get comfortable. "I think he watched the Godfather movies a few too many times. Everybody says after his brother was killed, he took a vow on his grave to avenge him. He did a lot of damage, too. It was a bloodbath for a while."

"So, he got his revenge and then he left town, and that was ten years ago." Mark frowned. "Then why'd he decide to come back?"

"That's what I wanna know. Within a couple weeks of his bother's death, Charlie'd killed four guys, all members of the Pinelli family. By then things were getting pretty hot—the cops _and_ the Pinelli's were after him. Then he disappeared. Lots of folks thought that the Pinelli's had finally taken him out, but it seemed more likely that he'd finally gotten his fill—or decided one man really couldn't take on a whole mob family—and he got out of town."

"So why come back now?"

"Who knows?" Hardcastle managed a passable shrug in the confined space. "It might be the anniversary—it'll be ten years exactly, November second."

"All Soul's Day," Mark muttered, staring out past the fence and into the cemetery with a rather fixed expression.

"Huh?"

"Oh," he shook himself free from the reverie, "it's a Catholic thing—Halloween, then All Saint's Day, then after that is All Soul's—for the ones who aren't saints." He smiled. "Which is most of us, I guess."

"Well, that's kinda interesting, because by all reports, Breazle's brother was an okay guy—maybe not a saint, but he had an honest job—never got involved in any of Charlie's doings."

"Then how'd he get killed?"

"Wrong place, wrong time. One of the Pinelli guys probably mistook him for his brother. There was a lot of family resemblance. Anyway, that's one of the reasons Charlie was baying for blood. Some guilt there, I imagine."

Mark nodded, then frowned. "But we're here two days early, if you think this is an anniversary thing."

"Come on, kiddo, I don't have a copy of the guy's appointment book. And what I'm hoping is that if Charlie really is in town, he'll stop by here to pay his respects to his brother before he heads out to paint the town red again. See?"

Mark saw, though what he saw was forty-eight hours folded up in the Coyote—the truck would be out of commission at least that long. "So we hang around the cemetery for a couple of days, waiting for Charlie to show up, and then what?"

"Then we follow him, or at least get his make and model and tag number—and let Frank's guys hunt him up."

"Before he's done anything?"

"Believe it or not, it's better that way. Anyway, there's still those four old cases. Sure they're plenty cold, but the cops will still want to have a word with Charlie." Hardcastle shifted again, looking less and less tolerant of the arrangements. "But the chances of Breazle showing up here during visiting hours is low, so we'll only need to hang around tonight, and maybe tomorrow night, too."

"Great," Mark muttered. Then he started to straighten his legs, and push up out of the seat.

Hardcastle looked sideward at him, with a puzzled expression. "Where ya think you're going?"

"Anywhere but here. We've only been here forty-five minutes and already my feet are asleep—not to mention other parts. Make more sense to get out, try and blend in a little. If he comes by this way he's gonna look at this car for sure, and if we're sitting in it, he'll know something's up."

Hardcastle gave this a thoughtful nod, and started to scramble up as well.

"See?" Mark said, standing at the edge of the road that separated them from the cemetery fence. "Nice night for a walk."

He was right; it was pleasantly cool. There was no moon, the clouds were moving fast above the windswept trees. The street lamps cast shadows like fingers, pointing in among the gravestones. Mark led the way, crossing the road and then ambling along the fence. It wasn't far before they came to a break, blocked only by bushes. It looked as if many previous intruders had followed the same route.

"This is trespassing," Hardcastle said gruffly as Mark edged through, but he only hesitated a moment before following him.

On the other side, McCormick gave him an approving smile. "Not exactly a B&E," he said cheerfully. "but, anyway, I'm with you, and you have a nice shiny gold honorary detective's shield, which ought to be good for at least a _cemetery_, for Pete's sake. Didn't you ever spend any time in cemeteries growing up?"

"What the hell for?"

Mark shook his head slowly. "You had a deprived youth, Hardcase. Cemeteries are where you go when you want to hang out at night. Good for dates, too."

"You're kidding."

"No I'm not, if you don't have a car, and you can't afford to be anywhere else, a cemetery can be very . . ."

"What, _romantic_?"

"No," Mark said with certainty, "not that, but private, except for all the other broke guys with no cars. And maybe it is a little romantic—you start telling some old story you heard about the place, and your date gets a little shiver down her spine and, well, stuff happens."

Hardcastle gave him a sour look, offset by street lamp and shadows. "I'll bet."

Mark smiled complacently and then, after a pause where he stood and took his bearings, he said, "Besides, the guy's gonna have to sneak in here, just like we did, and maybe he'll stand there, over his brother's grave and say it all out loud—what he's planning on doing next. Now that'd be handy, wouldn't it?"

The judge had to give that a nod.

"But which one's his brother's?"

Hardcastle looked around with a surveying gaze. "It's a big stone with some kinda urn on the top, 'bout eight feet tall. I remember thinking Charlie must have put it in as a rush order. He didn't spare any expense. Should be easy to spot."

"That one, there?" Mark pointed. It was visible now, as their eyes adapted to the dark.

Hardcastle cocked his head. "Looks about right."

The marble column shown pale silver-white, almost ghostly, in what little ambient light penetrated that far from the road. Mark led the way, staying in the darker shadows and watching carefully for any other trespassers. They saw no one as they drew closer to the stone. Mark risked a quick walk over to its base, and confirmed the name; then they withdrew to the deeper darkness alongside a nearby crypt, settling themselves on a ornamental bench.

"See?" Mark whispered, "wouldn't this make a great spot to bring a date? You could even pick up a couple of flowers."

"No wonder you never found Ms. Right," Hardcastle said dryly.

"Yeah, well, maybe not," Mark grinned, "but I found a few Ms. Wrongs."

He leaned back against the crypt wall, pockmarked and crumbling in spots. It was hardly more comfortable than the Coyote, but at least roomier. He'd barely gotten settled when he felt the judge stiffen, sitting up straighter with his gaze focused left, back in the direction they'd come from.

Mark's 'What—?' was answered by a preemptory '_Shh_' and a hand on his arm.

The judge turned back toward him and said, almost inaudible on the barest of breaths, "Somebody moving over there."

Mark nodded and then froze where he was, trying to pierce the gloom. He caught a glimpse of some movement, too, though it might have been merely leaves stirred by the quickening breeze, or a stray dog wandering through, or some kids looking for a quiet place to do a little necking.

But it was moving closer, now, and it had a shape, shadowy and ill-defined, but definitely too big to be leaves or a dog. McCormick wished they'd picked a more concealed spot. The only way they'd avoid detection now was if they remained absolutely still and the other intruder was preoccupied.

And so far, he was. Mark didn't have to ask the judge if this was the right guy. He could see now that it was one man, hunched and with a shuffle to his gait, but heading straight for the stone that bore the Breazle name.

_Of course_, Mark thought, _he's old. Ten years on the run, ten years wanting revenge, that ages a guy._ The stooped figure stepped out into the clear area near the column. Mark thought for a moment his prediction might, astonishingly, come true. It seemed like the perfect place for a soliloquy. But instead, the man stepped forward, placing one hand on the stone, as though he were seeking a connection with it.

The sound from behind them—a dull heavy groan, like corroded hinges—took McCormick completely by surprise. The judge too, it seemed; he felt the man jerk and turn back toward the crypt, no longer frozen in place.

"What the hell—" he heard Hardcastle mutter. And then he felt it, a shudder in the wall of the crypt, as though things were being moved inside, or a door had been thrust open with some force. They both stumbled to their feet.

The man at the graveside looked up. His gaze seemed to pass over them with hardly the briefest pause and then come to rest to their left, in line with the front side of the crypt. He still said nothing, but his face wore an expression of undying enmity.

Mark didn't have to look around the corner of the structure. "We're not alone," he whispered anxiously, "but we're in the crossfire."

That part was now clear. The man at the graveside reached into his pocket and withdrew something. A dark shape protruded from his hand, pointed in the general direction of the crypt. Mark couldn't distinguish the make, but was willing to guess there was a suppressor on one end of the barrel. The guy held it with weary familiarity, as though he'd done this enough times that it was no longer anything but business.

McCormick reached out, snagging Hardcastle's sleeve as the man's hand dove into his own coat pocket. Now he could see the shadowy edges of the men who'd been hiding in the crypt. They were stepping forward, not trying to take cover, apparently confident in their numbers.

"Not our fight," McCormick hissed, trying to pull the judge further to the right, before he was irrevocable part of the fray. There was a certain amount of inertia, though, and Mark didn't want to make any sudden moves that would draw attention to them.

The first flash of the barrel was almost blinding, and the startling absence of a report nearly as disconcerting. More flashes, from over on their left and then the man by the grave was thrown backwards, framed in jerking stop action by the strobing light of his own gun, now firing wildly.

Mark yanked harder, feeling at least one bullet nip the sleeve of his jacket, and the sharp echo as it hit the wall directly behind. And then he was falling, still clutching the judge's arm.

00000

Silence. Darkness. He turned his head, and felt a sharp pain back there that made him regret having moved. Someone patting his cheek.

"Stop it," he said.

"Then open your eyes."

He did, squinting up at Hardcastle, then around at their surroundings. The cemetery. He was flat on his back. It came back in a rush. He struggled to sit up.

"You okay?" Hardcastle asked, sounding worried. "You hit your head, I think."

"Where are they?" Mark said. It came out as little more than a whisper.

"I kinda fell on you," the judge said apologetically. "Sorry."

Mark reached up and touched the back of his head. There was a lump, and it felt a little sticky. He turned his head again, slowly this time. The area in front of the grave marker was empty, bare, not even a mound after all this time.

"I saw . . ." He shut his mouth on that. He let the judge help as he gathered his feet under him and staggered up, swaying. He turned and looked at the wall of the crypt, the pockmarks that he'd barely glanced at earlier. He studied the surface of the bench. Hard to say if any of the stone chips that dusted it were new.

The judge seemed equally preoccupied, but still had his hand firmly under McCormick's arm. He didn't try to stay the younger man, when he walked, in slow, careful steps, around to the front of the crypt. The door was closed. There were no signs of recent visitation. The name over the door, lichen-ridden with age, was Pinelli.

Mark raised one eyebrow at Hardcastle.

"Well, that's interesting," the judge looked over at the other, more recent marker. "I guess Breazle wanted to make a statement when he bought that plot for his brother."

"Where'd they all go?" Mark looked back at the other grave again, still feeling muzzy.

The judge shot a quick glance back at him, then away, almost nervously. He looked like he'd been on the verge of saying, "Who?" but then settled for "Dunno, I had my lights knocked out for a second, too. Maybe more than a second. They musta hustled out of here."

"With a body?"

Hardcastle frowned. "Well, they're gone. That's all I can say for sure."

"You think—"

"Nah," the judge said hastily.

"I felt a bullet. Mark reached down to his sleeve, groping at it. It took him a moment, but he finally found the small rip. "See?" he said, "but there's no bullet in the wall or on the bench. Just old holes."

You tore your sleeve on something, that bush as we were coming in," the judge said practically.

"Ghosts," Mark said with a tone of bemusement, "we saw ghosts." He frowned. "Or not exactly ghosts, but what happened, ten years ago."

"That's nonsense."

"They hid in here, the Pinellis. They waited for him to show up. Maybe they knew he was planning on leaving town. They figured he'd come here first, to say goodbye. They waited, and when he showed up, they ambushed him."

"Nonsense," Hardcastle repeated firmly. "What about the body?"

"What's one more in a cemetery? They coulda put him in their crypt." Mark stared at it again, then slowly shook his head. "No, all this revenge stuff. They wouldn't have wanted him in there."

"Then where?"

"The other grave was still fresh. Nice soft dirt, easy to dig. Sort of a shame to waste a stone that size on just one guy."

"This is crazy," Hardcastle huffed. "We didn't see some kinda glass lantern reenactment of a murder. I don't believe that."

"Okay, then what did_ you_ see?"

He watched the older man shift a little, from foot to foot, his eyes directed down, his hand still firmly latched under McCormick's arm, though now it almost seemed to be for mutual support.

"I saw Isadore Pinelli," he finally said. It was the low hesitant rumble of a man who hated lying even more than admitting to an inconvenient truth. "He was the head of the family back then, passed a few years ago, and a nephew of his, Joey—he's gone, too, I'm pretty sure. The other guy I didn't know by sight."

"He'll be dead, too, whoever he is, and his last name will probably be Pinelli, unless they started burying the family retainers in there, too." Mark gave the place one last slow considering look. "All dead and still not satisfied." He shook his head and drew up short again, wincing.

"Let's go home," he said quietly. "My head hurts . . . and the exhumation order can wait. It's been ten years, what's another day? Besides, you'll never live it down if you start asking for one on Halloween night."


End file.
